


Surprisingly Pure Old Kink Meme Fills

by sakuramacaron



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 02:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13157640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakuramacaron/pseuds/sakuramacaron
Summary: A collection of old kink meme fills I did that in retrospect, I find acceptable enough to finally admit I wrote them.You know.  Four years later.ch 1 - Hanamura & his momch 2 - Naegi/Kirigiri - Meiji-era(ish???) Vampire AU





	1. Hanamura Family Fluff

Hanamura remembers when he knew he wanted to be a chef: Barely able to see the ingredients on the counter, even while wobbling on the very tips of his toes on the step stool beside his mommy. Too young small and young to even close his hands around the handle of a knife-- much less wield it with precision.   
  
“Try this.” Her voice is warm and inviting, just like the gentle waft of steam and the blend of seasonings that get his mouth watering with just an experimental whiff of the spoon. The sharp bite of white pepper and ginger tickles his nostrils, tempered by the slightest hint of sweetness from the sesame oil and star anise, the almost caramel-like notes of soy sauce and earthy radish and garlic mellowed through hours of cooking. He takes a sip, letting his teeth sink into chewy egg noodles, allowing his tongue to be engulfed by the richness of the broth that only comes from time: meat that’s been cooked until it falls off tendons and bones in buttery soft pieces, surrendering its fat into this magic potion of herbs, spices and vegetables that seems to embrace his body from the inside. The warmth seeps into his veins in ways that tell him that this can’t just come from the combination of ingredients, heat and time: This is what love tastes like. Love is what his mother serves to people every single day, whether every chair in their small restaurant is full or if there’s only one customer.   
  
He wants to capture that feeling, put the same smile on her face that a single spoonful from her gave him. It’s not that he doesn’t see her smile; it was her smile that got him through every cut, burn and ruined schoolboy crush. She’d let him bury his face in her shoulder, gently stroking his hair until he cried his heart out each time. It was her smile that greeted him whenever he woke in the morning and returned home from school. As expected of a doting mother, she beamed with joy at his victories, large and small, but he believes a smile that would come from serving her something he prepared with love would be special.  
  
He studies ingredients, figuring out what each thing in the refrigerator and pantry tastes like on its own and what it contributes to a dish. He learns to taste as he goes, adjusting things until flavors are just right. He hones techniques: he butchers, sears, braises, caramelizes, practicing over and over. Even though he finally musters the courage to tackle something of hers on his own, his hands shake. He’s abuzz with excitement when familiar aromas fill the kitchen, but when he goes to pour the meat and broth over the noodles he’s made, his heart sinks. The thinner strands, which were already mushy from being overcooked, disintegrate into the broth. He trembles, face burning in shame as he presents the bowl to her, but as she tastes it, she smiles. Even if it’s not perfect, she tastes the love.  
  
His next goal is to serve a dish that not only makes her smile, but is something he can be proud to serve. He researches more, expands his palate with ingredients beyond the ones found in the family restaurant. He learns new skills and techniques, building on his foundation. He becomes able to create dishes from around the world, and fuses those methods with the things he learned at home. When he believes he can serve his food with confidence, his mother isn’t the only one smiling and enjoying it.  
  
It’s only a matter of time before his talent is recognized by Hope’s Peak Academy. The night before he leaves, he volunteers to cook dinner. If this is going to be the last meal they share together in a while, he’s determined to make it absolutely perfect. His mind overflows with various possibilities, because he knows she deserves all the lavishness of a Manchu-Han Imperial Feast a thousand times over. However, the thing he wants her to remember him by isn’t fusion cuisine or excess: Something direct. Simple. No frills. In essence, his heart in a bowl.   
  
He finds himself reaching for the ingredients he knows best. As the meat and broth bubble away, he works on the noodles with steady hands, now as perfectly uniform as his mother’s used to be. The thought fills him with more concern than pride. He loads the bowls of soup on the tray and carries them out to the empty restaurant. In its dim light, her smile lights up the room, the way it always does. The quiver in her hands as she reaches for her spoon and chopsticks does nothing to ease his worries.  _Can he really leave her behind like this?_  
  
“I know what you’re thinking, but I’ll be fine. The restaurant will be too,” she insists, every cough that makes her words falter is a knife in his gut: “Don’t let me hold you back. Didn’t you want to be a world-renowned chef?”  
  
“I do, but it’s not like that,” he stares down into his bowl, fingers cradling the sides to warm his hands. If he were famous, he could earn the money to save their restaurant. Every Michelin Star he’d earn would help him throw the spotlight on where a true master of cooking was shining brighter than the sun, “When I come back, you won’t have to work as hard anymore. I’ll take care of you.”  
  
She takes his hands into hers with laughter that’s sweet and marshmallow-soft: “A lot can happen in three years. I wouldn’t be hurt if you changed your mind.”

In the dim light of their restaurant, he clings to his mommy’s fingers the way he did as a child. “I won’t. That’s a promise.”


	2. Meiji-era Vampire AU Naegiri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A (totally self-indulgent) Vampire AU set in Meiji-era Japan.
> 
> Trigger warnings for a graphic description of violence (beating/burning) near the end.
> 
> Original (unprompted) request was here: https://superhighschoollevelsmut.dreamwidth.org/1300.html?thread=1184532#cmt1184532

Moonlight suited her. That was the first thing that came to mind when he saw her, standing across the field. She was pale and willowy, an incandescent form that stood out in stark contrast to the soft, dark grass and lowing cattle. It was strange to see someone out that late at night: As he traveled, villagers often whispered of livestock found dead in the morning, completely drained of blood. Since those rumors began, everyone would lock themselves in their homes exactly at sundown, fearful that they would be next.   
  
Thus, he expected to be alone, but there she was, watching him with interest. An emotionless face, framing eyes that threatened to consume him. He was prey: a frail, homeless scavenger, stupid enough to get caught. In that moment, he would’ve given every ounce of himself over to that terrifying and lovely creature, if that’s what she wanted.  
  
She never asked for anything, not even in compensation for opening up her home to him. She parroted the villagers’ warnings of danger: “It’s not safe out here, so stay the night.” She even managed to sound slightly concerned. He was offered a bath and a change of clothes, though he found the former a little too cold and the latter much too large.  
  
She offered him a small bowl of rice and some pickled vegetables, though she didn’t eat any herself. After all, she’d “already eaten.” Admittedly, he was so nervous, he didn’t have much of an appetite, either. Instead, they retired to the library, where she told him of her parents, who had tragically died when she was very young and her grandfather, who had died a few years ago. She was alone ever since. The villagers had called her “cursed,” and wanted nothing to do with her, but she was always, always watching them.  
  
Before she could explain why, she had fallen asleep. He didn’t even realize what time it was, with the slivers of dawn shut out by the thick, dark curtains. He could have run away. He probably should have. Instead, one night turned to two, then into a week and into yet another week. The villagers’ herds were dwindling, but he didn’t want to pay any mind to that, not when there was a house to clean and meals to prepare for the lady of the house, who had become even more withdrawn. It was a strangely satisfying feeling, living for someone, instead of just for oneself: Even if she was a little scary, he couldn’t help being dazzled by the strands of moonbeams in her hair and cool depths of her eyes.  
  
He wanted to be with her in that house forever, but the villagers had other plans: He returned from an evening outing to find her home ablaze. The heat and smoke stung at his eyes and thorns dug into his skin as he cowered in the bushes, watching in horror as they dragged her out of her home. She never screamed in protest or cried, even when they grabbed her roughly by the hair and beat her, blaming her for their misfortune. They stomped on her limbs, jabbed their pitchforks into her and plunged a stake into her heart. She didn’t explode into ashes, but they were sure fire would finish off the rest. His gut contorted into knots as he watched them toss her onto the flaming remnants of the building, congratulating themselves for being able to return home as heroes and taking the bundles of fine silks and coffers of gold that once were hers as their reward. He couldn’t tell if it was the odor of burning flesh or their actions that made him ill.  
  
When he was certain they had left, he pulled her from the wreckage, silver hair now matted and singed, snowy skin burned pitch black. She was breathing, but barely, in shallow, stilted gasps. He told her he was so, so sorry. That it was all his fault. Even though she couldn’t speak, something in her eyes told him that she didn’t blame him at all. Without thinking, he cut his wrist open and pressed it to her lips, begging her to drink his blood. Blistered lips closed weakly around the wound. He watched in wonder as muscles and bones knitted together and burned skin gave way flawless white. Only the burns on her hands remained, but when he offered her more blood, she refused. She told him that he had done enough, that she wanted to keep those scars as a reminder of the foolishness of people-- and especially of her own foolishness.  
  
He gave up on asking her to explain anything to him; she’s too incomprehensible. He doesn’t understand why she’s refused to consume more of his blood since then, or why she even forgave him for what happened to her. Together, they watched seasons change, dirt roads get paved over and carriages fall out of use in favor of trains and automobiles. No matter how their environment changes, she remains as mysterious, captivating and young as the day they first met. Every day, he learns something new about her, he’s dazzled by her intelligence and her ability to adapt to the world around her. Perhaps he’s even more mesmerized by her than ever.  
  
She knows how she consumes his every thought, his dependence on her. It’s reflected in every intoxicating smile she graces him with, the hypnotic tone of her voice that resonates in his bones even in everyday conversation. Though the stars are outshined by city lights, the moon still filters through windows into her dark room, illuminating her figure. He stands on the tips of his toes and breathes her in before sinking his fangs into her neck. He can’t help thinking how lucky he is to have her beside him forever. Moonlight suits her, he thinks, even more than himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to take a stab at a twist ending, though I'm still not sure how successful it was. Kirigiri as a vampire seemed too obvious, and on a purely shallow level, I thought vampire Naegi would be cute.

**Author's Note:**

> Original Request was here: https://superhighschoollevelsmut.dreamwidth.org/558.html?thread=350766#cmt350766
> 
> Just did some grammar adjustments and added phrases for the repost. The primary aim when I wrote this was to gratuitously describe food, and the dish I had in mind was a Chinese braised beef tendon stew, which I can never spell properly. It is ridiculously good when it's done right. It's very comforting, and for some reason I was under the impression his mother wasn't cooking Japanese food, but I can't remember why now. Anyway, food porn.
> 
> I should also say that it's deliberately written to be a gut punch in hindsight of everything that ended up happening to him and his mom, so I'm glad it's aged well in light of DR3.


End file.
